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He grunts in reply. I’ll take that as a no. I check my reflection in the mirror and adjust the Rolex on my wrist. My pressed powder blue suit is perfectly fitted, my face clean-shaven, and I’ve styled my hair to look effortlessly out of place.
We’re high up, but I take the stairs to avoid making awkward conversation in the lift with anyone who recognises me. They’ve plastered my face over every news network for days, and I want to avoid any questions.
Wearing new loafers straight out of the box wouldn’t normally be a problem for me, but they’re pinching my toes with each step. I’ve had to make do with a personal shopper delivery, and I won’t be using their services again. The shoes feel like they’re a size too small, although the pain gives me something else to focus on.
Once in the lobby, I spot a black car waiting through the glass-windowed front of the building. By its side, a driver built like a lorry checks his phone and taps his foot impatiently. Mother must have given specific instructions to ensure I show up, and he’s getting antsy.
“Mr Montgomery.” The driver tips his hat in my direction. He breathes a sigh of relief as I approach the car. “I’ll be your driver this evening.”
“I already have a driver,” I reply. “Where’s Tim?”
Tim Pope’s been on my payroll for years. He’s a sensible family man who has got me out of more than one tricky situation, and I trust him.
“Your mother insists I take you.” His eyes burn into me to say he’ll drag me if I don’t abide. “She’s paid for Mr Pope to have the night off.”
More like she’s blackmailed Tim and wants to have her eyes on whatever I’m doing.
“Fine,” I say. At least I can drink to get me through whatever tomfoolery she has planned. “Let’s go then.”
He holds the door open, and I slide inside. We join the busy London traffic, driving past historical sights and streets bustling with tourists. Their faces glow from the excited rush of seeing the city for the first time. I don’t feel the same level of excitement anymore. Instead, I notice how fucking grey everything is. How rubbish drags along the pavement. How homeless people crowd under shop doorways wrapped in sleeping bags, and how everyone’s noses are permanently red from the cold. Rain hits the window. Yep, and it’s always raining.
We head into Chelsea, unsurprisingly. My mother rarely leaves the borough. Anywhere outside of Zone Two may as well be another continent in her eyes.
I check my phone. No messages. Usually, I’d have something from Callen. A jokey meme to roast me. Failing that, I’d have a random fact from Bram. He liked to send me facts about the local area while he tracked my location. But there’s nothing. I stash it away, trying to forget how much the Dukes have changed in a short time. Nothing is the same anymore.
I watch crowds walk past. Suddenly, through the umbrellas, I see a flash of long red hair.
“Stop the car!” I yell. “Now!”
The driver screeches to a halt. “What is it?”
I jump out without explanation and sprint down the street after the woman.
“Out of my way!” I roar, pushing people to the side. She’s up ahead. She’s wearing a long black coat with the hood pulled up, and red waves escape it. When I reach her, I grab her shoulders and spin her around. “Rose?”
My heart sinks as a stranger looks back. It’s not her.
“Sorry,” I murmur. The woman looks at me like I’m a crazy mugger. “I thought you were… someone else.”
She pulls her bag closer to her side and huffs. Aside from the red hair, there are no similarities.
Fuck, I miss her. All I can think about are her sarcastic quips, determined gaze, eyes that light up when she laughs, and how her soft curves feel in my hands. I’m even seeing her in my dreams.
My shoulder slouch as I get back into the car again.
“Is everything—”
“Keep driving,” I snap. “Mother wouldn’t want me to be late.”
My yearning for Rose isn’t all that keeps me up at night. I wonder whether she ran from the ball after discovering what Callen forced her to do or whether she was running from us. Callen’s actions showed her that we’re monsters. I can’t blame her for wanting to get away. Although, it doesn’t make it any less painful.
“We’re almost there, sir,” the driver says.
Ralph didn’t give me any clues about the evening, but I can guarantee I’d prefer spending my time disposing of a body.
We reach a row of popular restaurants where celebrities dine. The paparazzi gather around the entrance to one of them. Their cameras are poised, ready to clamber over each other to get the best shot, like hyenas fighting over a carcass. Contrary to popular belief, the paps don’t often show up uninvited. The official Royal photographer stands at the front, confirming that they’re waiting for me.
“This is your stop, Mr Montgomery.”
